“Do you want to try this?” I held out one of the bottles and he squeezed a bit into his fingers before rubbing it gently onto the head of his cock. I think he could sense that this was some kind of dare, but he was happy enough to recline, with his hands behind his head, while I took full control. I pulled out a couple of cock sheaths – one tight and black, which fits so snugly 'round his dick that it’s hard to get it on without effort, the other softer, more jellyfish, which has the kind of sucky texture that he says is reminiscent of a gentle blow job. Cock sheaths make hand jobs more interesting – they’re ridged and studded on the inside, the way my own hands could never be, so it’s like wanking a guy off with superpowers. I mixed the two lubes, Mark picked a sheath, and we got to work.

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Because the sheath was so soft, as I squeezed and rubbed him I could feel his rock-solid dick pushing against the material. Twisting and clamping it round his dick, I could feel the ridge at the head pushing hard against my fingers, and watch the see-through sheath stretch as his cock strained against it.

I love the rhythm of hand jobs . I love the smooth-sticky feelings of lube on my fingers. I like the control – knowing that every kick of Mark’s arousal, every grunt and moan, every tingle and twitch is down to me. He put his hands behind his head and looked me directly in the eye. His eyebrows furrowed into a frown as I rubbed faster, squeezed harder. I revelled in the increasing frequency of the slick-slick-slick noises as I rubbed his dick, watching his face grow taut with concentration as he held himself back from thrusting against it.

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Fuck yeah. Oh god yes. Does any three-word phrase have such a beautiful, simple sexiness? Hearing it, ideally uttered with a desperate whimper, makes me instantly wet – eager for the inevitable end, yet prematurely nostalgic for the moment when it's over and I don’t hold his climax in the palm of my hand anymore. I did what anyone would do and immediately slowed the pace, trying to keep him hanging there for a moment while I took in every detail of his frown, his rapid breathing and the double-twitch of his cock just before he came.

Sadly, restraint is neither my, nor his, forte. He arched his back, leaning up towards me and he shot spunk into the cup of the sheath. The clear material meant I could see the thick squirts filling it as he moaned. That’s what I’d been aching for ever since the PR woman had issued me with the challenge: “If you can make someone come in less than three minutes,” she said playfully, “then you’ll know this is a good product.”

If you’d asked Mark what he thought of my sex blogging , he’d probably have mentioned the hotness of reading stories like that and knowing he was the star; the fringe benefit of having someone who comes home with free lube and a filthy idea flashing in her eyes; the opportunity to lie down, pull out your erection and be the test subject for a casual sexual experiment, then dissect the benefits of “tingling” over “warming” lube while you drift into exhausted sleep.

But he’d also have added the caveat that no matter what the perceived benefits of dating a sex blogger, the fantasy figure people picture from the internet is only a tiny fraction of the real life fuck-up.

You can imagine what it’s like to get wanked-off by a horny girl on the net, but it’s harder to picture how she’ll respond if you eat her last Cadbury’s Crème Egg, or sit on the remote control when she’s trying to live-tweet "Question Time." He’d have pointed out the gulf between reality and the write up:

“I bet you won't tell people what you did after the hand job,” he’d explain, gesturing at my phone, which displayed a stopwatch app complete with time stamp. I was rubbing frantically at it with a towel and muttering “shit shit shit shit shit”, as I tried to clean off the smears of “tingling” lube. “You won’t write that into the story, will you?”

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